Of Demons and Doctors
by Hedgehogs and Tea
Summary: AU where John is a BAMF demon hunter, and Sherlock is... Sherlock. Not based on Supernatural. In progress, not very original, but I wanted to write it. Eventual Johnlock.
1. New Beginnings

There was blood on the floor again.

Damn, he'd probably get kicked out of the army-issue flat this time. Fourth time this month, and his 'doctoring' charade hadn't help up too well. If you've got control over the elements that rest just out of reach for most of the population, keeping a low profile is generally necessary. As John Watson was doing.

People who had demons using their bodies as transport generally showed the symptoms of someone with a vague illness. Thankfully, paranoia was at an all-time-high and it was demon season for the hunters of the world. Contrary to popular opinion, holding up a cross does not rid you of a demon, simply gives it one more fear to exploit. Once you feel a slight emotional depression, you are an easy target for the supernatural realm to latch upon. Usually it is unnoticeable, just little quirks that happen all the time; losing feeling in a limb or sensory attachment, and then a sense of nausea as the being co-existing with you steals your functions and control over yourself. High-tolerance for fault and pain usually, in John's case, lead to a difficult separation of the carrier and spirit, such as had happened four times within the month. John may have been an Aware, but he was in no way invincible, or able to perform an extraction within minutes, relying on little to no sleep. In any case, it had not been an easy month.

-m-M-m-

_One month earlier_

This was what people wanted, right? To be sent home? Away from Afghanistan, away from the days of countless souls, deaths and blood, all of it blurring into an obscure scar, away from the hell on earth, that was his life before that one bullet. Although, due to his awareness, he probably should have seen, but extracting a particularly clingy goblin out of a boy was proving difficult, and the awareness came back just as a 9x19mm copper-jacketed bullet was inches away from his shoulder. It ripped through, and the goblin, seizing its chance, clawed through John's leg, rendering him unable to walk and with a fever for weeks. As the hallucinations had faded and consciousness had returned, the nurses informed him that he was to be sent home, and it was a close call. They had, helpfully, informed him that the fever was 'illogical', to which he spared a small ironic chuckle. All the souls, flitting around in the world, completely ignorant of the supernatural beings that existed in such close proximity, both good and bad.

Upon his return to London, he began performing impromptu rituals, separating people that were too closely bonded with the spirit. Most people have one, and most are unaware. The effects are different for each. For some it is rage, as it is with the goblins. Goblins are thick in the Army, and people that have given the being free reign have ended up going into a berserker state of rage. There are incubi and succubae, who deal in lust. There are the demons, sounds plain old and boring, right? But there is a spectrum. On one end, the demon will bring a state of depression. On the other, the demon will invoke a black hole of emotions, drawing people in, and feeding on their happy thoughts, leaving them with a heart of stone. Demons are manipulators of emotions, greedy and cold. They are by far the most devious of all other-worlders, for they bring peace before drawing the last of the strength, and turn the carrier on themselves, believing that they are causing their own problems. Demons will use a person in more subtle ways, using friendships for all they are worth, and spitting out the remains, casting the blame on the person. Then there are the good. There are the fae, who find what their carrier wants and employs skills and assets that said carrier owns in order to attain it. The fae are normal, common, but most are weak. An abrasive soul can wear out a weak fae, and the fae may fade on its own; but if the fae is strong it can turn the soul of the person. As a regulation, fae usually care about their carriers above all else. There are the pixies, less common, but stronger, and many other kinds. They are simply the easiest to recognise, and the norm for supernaturals, but other kinds exist, John just hasn't met them yet. He'd seen so many kinds of evil, so much gore and hate that every good he saw made him glad that not everybody had been lead astray.

Let's fast forward to the blood on the floor. The ritual went wrong, again, and he needed iron to enhance the sayings. Unfortunately, the demon was a clever little bugger, who had appeared in the flat before John and thrown all his iron related materials into the skip outside his window, so he had to use his own blood. However, the ritual worked, and John stood, swaying from blood loss, needing to move a scrawny young fellow out of his flat, onto the pavement before he woke up and comprehended the freedom of being without his demon. Said demon was currently losing consciousness in a jar in John's flat, turning from a wisp of wind into dust as his carrier was dragged onto the street. John stumbled and limped up the stairs and promptly fell, unconscious, onto the bed.

Knowing it was only a matter of time until the landlord took a quick tour and spied the mess on the floor, John took a walk around the park, to see if there was anyone he could help with a handshake. 'Walk' was a bit of an overstatement, however. The memory of the talons burrowed into his leg haunted his walk, although his psychiatrist said 'it's psychosomatic, you need to take your mind off of it, and it will simply fade into nothing, the same with your nightmares.' A load of clap-trap, in John's opinion. The night terrors did not fade, and likely never would, seen as he is haunted by his work. Since the Army had destroyed his walls, the spirits found a way to show him they could send one last hate message before they left forever, and they sent it to him. The powerful ones that could access dreams were the worst. Weeks of sleepless nights, because every time he closed his eyes, the things he didn't want to see were displayed, in horrifying clarity. Getting his walls up could happen, but it would take a force of will he wasn't sure he possessed.

He limped along, vaguely cataloguing people he passed. There were fae, so many fae. It made him smile, there was a mass amount of fae in London, and they all seemed to be here. There were pixie congregations and one lucky enough to have a guardian, before his attention was diverted elsewhere.

"John, John Watson?" John turned and stared. It was impossible not to. He briefly recognised the man as Mike Stamford, a guy in med school with him, a guy with a weak fae. Not too interesting. Easy to ignore. It appeared he'd got rid of the fae, and now had a Kin.

_Kin, (n) [kin] __someone__or__something__of__ the same or similar kind. Kin, (n) [kin] a spirit with a matchmaking tryst, exist rarely, and are incredibly powerful. Can see who is most compatible with others, and uses carrier to bring them together. It is the only spirit with a physical form. While all others are hues surrounding the soul, the Kin is able to separate itself from the carrier, although the viewing of them is still restricted to Aware's. _

"Yeah, I got fat," Mike said, in response to his dumbfounded look. Yeah, you're also carrying a kin, John thought, still slightly in awe. A few minutes later brought a sense of stability back to John, along with a coffee for them both. The Kin was watching John, most likely deciding who it'd match him with. John sighed, and knew that whoever it was, wouldn't want to get to know him. I mean, how are you meant to introduce yourself; "Yeah, hi, I'm John. I separate demons from the souls of the unfortunate humans that they latch onto. Oh yeah, and this limp? And this bullet wound? Both caused by a goblin. You?" Even without the obvious drawbacks, at heart he'd simply become loyal to the people he wanted to, and consider them the highest priority. A bit like a fae. Unsurprisingly, this made him a majorly difficult man to live with.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" There it was, the cinching question. He was just poking fun at the Kin, giving it a bit of a challenge. In response, he saw it grin widely, as Mike huffed a laugh.

"You're the second person who's said that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

_-_m-M-m-

Everybody that he'd seen in St Bartholomew's was normal. Simple, ordinary, boring, no use for John to try to get to know. They kept walking, so he knew the Kin had other ideas, and he was getting nervous as he limped through the door, into the, apparently final, room. He shifted his gaze, noting the up-to-date technology.

"Bit different from my day." The statement was blunt and unemotional, simply a view as he looked around again.

"Mike can I borrow your phone, mine has no reception down here,"

And then John was star struck for the second time that day.

In front of him, without a care in the world, stood a Pure, and John knew that he'd go anywhere, do anything for this spectacle of a man. Even before he had spoken two sentences, before he knew his name, he'd give anything up.

_Pure, (adj) [pyoor] __free from anything of a different, inferior, or contaminating kind; free from extraneous matter. Pure, (n) [pyoor] an untarnished soul._

* * *

**A/N:Aw man I finally got around to writing my first fic. Yeah, this is going to be continued and um all mistakes are mine, I have a sortof storyline in place but you're going to have to waaiiittt(; Please review, suggestions, ideas, prompts, mistakes that I've made, even if it's just to say 'never write again' I'd love to hear it (; More will be up soon.**_  
_

**Love, hugs, hedgehogs and tea.  
**


	2. Sherlock Holmes

**A/N: I'm tired and my stomach hurts and I want to sleep until the world ends but um instead I wrote this and it doesn't make much sense and I haven't read through it so trust me, reviews saying "You spelt this wrong" or "The grammar here could be better" or really just anything would be **_**godsends**_**. Thanks for putting up with me.**

John decided that the Kin was his worst enemy. After a brief meeting with the 'mythological' Pure, in which a flat share had been arranged, it hadn't stopped grinning at him. John was tempted to turn around, walk away and never see Stamford again. Tempted. The chance to see the Kin at work again was too enthralling to resist. He left with a sense of uneasiness that comes hand-in-hand with mind blowing anticipation, ready to see the Pure, 'Sherlock', again.

Every time, Sherlock managed to surprise him. First, the hug to landlady, a massive difference from the cold greeting of Mike, giving John contrasting views of him, something that was told never to happen with Pure's, but his flat was the most radical difference. The essence of a Pure is typically neat, organised. Myths say it borders on OCD, and they have only one demeanour to put forward. Sherlock's flat was anything but neat, organised and OCD. The confirmation that Sherlock had created this came right with the invitation for him to move in. This man was the oddest Pure he ever could have met.  
"There's an extra bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two...?"  
"Of course we'll be needing two." Even with that swift dismissal, images and possibilities played themselves out in John's mind, and he probably imagined it, but there was a swift flash of confusion, which could easily be passed off as disappointment, from Sherlock. John heaved himself into one of the chairs, as Sherlock made use of his gift, deducing quickly that there had been another 'suicide', but something was different this time. He'd just finished his analysis when footsteps sounded on the staircase, and an older man with a breathtaking pixie fumbled his way up the stairs, asking Sherlock if he'd see the crime scene. That was the first notion John got of the Pure's extraordinary acting abilities, when initially looking disappointed with the conclusion, after the man had left, he exclaimed that they were, in fact, giving him the feeling that "it's Christmas!" It left John a bit dumbfounded and he got himself back in gear in time to see Sherlock brushing out the door in a flurry of expensive coat.  
"You're more the sitting down type..."  
_What._  
John cast a glance back, and the housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, stood behind him, and he could see her pixie was mischievous, but essentially, peaceful. John just opened a stray newspaper and yelled;  
"Couple biscuits, too!" It never hurt to get the kind people wound up. Usually.  
"Not your housekeeper!" John huffed. She was, most likely, too nice to Sherlock and acted as his housekeeper, and this provoked a surge of irrational jealousy in the doctor. His eye was caught by a picture of the man that had just asked Sherlock along to a... case, he guessed. DI Lestrade, the man with the pixie. He leaned forwards, and started reading the paper more carefully. Serial suicides? He'd scoff if it wasn't written on paper in front of him. Sherlock,_ Sherlock_ _the Pure_ was helping solve _serial suicides?  
_"You're a doctor."  
John jumped and almost cricked his neck whipping his head up to meet the man's eyes.  
"An army, doctor, in fact. Good?"  
John laughed internally. It was not the time to be bragging. Or, in fact, playing into the hands of a perfect man. But... You only live once.  
"Very-good. The best."  
"Seen a lot of bloody deaths."  
"Yes. Too many. Enough for a lifetime."  
"Do you want to see some more?"  
John nearly grinned. This man knew him better than he did.  
"Oh god, yes."

-m-M-m-

Taxis. John didn't mind them usually. Except, when you're in close proximity to a Pure, that you just can't get your mind off, and your attraction to them crushes your soul with every breath, Taxis turn from a quick ride, a safe exit, to a jail cell in Hell. Because John did not want, repeat, did _not_ want Sherlock running away from him due to his attraction to the perfection of his soul.  
He was trying to keep his breath calm and not bombard Sherlock with a vast array of questions, when the man spoke.  
"Alright, you've got questions."  
John let out a silent sigh of relief. Talking might ease the tension he felt about being next to this man.  
"Yeah, how did you know about Afghanistan? And my leg?"  
The man smirked.  
"Obvious."  
And he launched into a detailed description of how he knew about all the various aspects of John's life. John sat there, dumbfounded for the too-many'nth time in two days. Two days and a Kin was all it took for his world to be turned on its head. When Sherlock started explaining about his phone, John fished it out of his pocket, and viewed it through Sherlock's eyes. Once Sherlock had put explanation behind an, apparently, miraculous, act; it was all too obvious. John could see the clear, clinical way that Sherlock must view things, and it astonished him that he was, as a Pure, able to ignore his emotions and opinions as such 'trivial nonsense'. Through Sherlock's eyes, opinions and prejudices and emotions would cloud his view of the world, therefore not allowing the deduction process to work as effectively. It was amazing, and looked so painful to such an allegedly tender being. John said, completely honestly;  
"That was... Amazing."  
"Really?" There was a hint of a ghost of hope in the man's grey eyes.  
"Yes, completely extraordinary."  
"That's not what people normally say."  
"What do people normally say?"  
"Piss off." How a man, precise and closed off could be so subliminally emotive through three sentences was a mystery to John, and all he knew was that it was amazing and completely different.

-m-M-m-

If you think that police officers have the best bunch of spirits you could ever imagine... well you're wrong. Most do, and the spirits are the ones that convince them to join the police and do some good for the city they live in. Others' spirits get worn out by the stress and high pressure. Then the good ones leave, and the nasty take their place. As such, most in this force were Fae, seen as it is the most common. The more enthusiastic had pixies, seen as they are the more resilient, their biggest joy is righting wrongs, and they are generally better suited to high pressure than Fae.  
To be fair, the spirits were mostly good, and some of the worst had contestants. One woman, who 'greeted' them to the street outside the building had a Cor.

_Inquietum__Cor (n) [iyn-quein-aht-uhm __•__ cor {abr Cor |cor|}] Originating from dead language Latin, translates into restless heart. Translation inconclusive; could also be interpreted as suspicious and varying other words of the same nature. Chosen for the Spirit of a person who will always doubt what they see. Uncommon, during WW2 they were targeted as destroyers of peace, bringers of doubt. Not bad or cold-hearted natures, but will doubt a person if they sense something is wrong. Strong intuitions. Can easily misguide themselves and others._

"And you are?" Her face held a sneer. Well, the legends weren't wrong; they're surely snooty, suspicious and self-centred by nature.  
"Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Her voice is incredulous, bordering on screeching, and John narrows his eyes at her. While her spirit isn't bad, he thinks it may be amplified by her nature, making this woman extremely unpleasant, until he has managed to gain a bit of respect. For now, a tight smile will do.

He follows Sherlock, who walks as if this lonely, deprived street on the outskirts of nowhere belongs to him, towards the door. Before they reach it, a man appeared through the door, wearing a blue forensics suit and a rather suggestible Fae. He looks like the sort of man who can think, and is moderately clever, but otherwise is an utter idiot due to his acceptance of opinion as fact. As he walks up, he wrinkles his nose, as if he has smelt something awful, and stands with his legs apart in a defensive stance that just looks ridiculous in the suit he has donned.  
"It's a Crime Scene, I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?" John almost snickers. The words 'Crime Scene' are pronounced so, if written, they would begin with capital letters, and the way he talks makes him sound like he has something stuck up his nose. Or nether regions that John does not want to imagine on this man. However, the amused and exasperated attitude doesn't last long, as Sherlock strides in and loudly announces to the entire police force and street, about his and Sally's affair. Once he had left them grasping for words, he shot them a triumphant smile and strode inside. John's gaze flicked to Sally's knees, and back to her face, and he shot her a lopsided smirk.

Inside, John and the man with the Pixie, DI Lestrade, put on the ridiculous blue suits over their clothes, while Sherlock expressed his clear distaste. John fought the urge to grin immensely. It was such typical behaviour of a Pure, skirting around something that it doesn't like, but would still do it if the end result would be negative. For Sherlock, the end result was the work, and if he needed to, he'd be cordial to anyone there, and maybe even wear a ridiculous blue suit. Only if he had wronged someone very severely, though. His distaste for anything other than what he understands was so glaringly obvious, if you stood too close you'd get hit in the face.

The woman, in pink. Lying face down, dead. The time in the room passed so quickly John was hardly aware of it. One second Sherlock was examining the body, and then they were alone in the room and Sherlock was kneeling, next to him in such close proximity his heart skipped a beat, and then sped up to a pace that was completely not appropriate for kneeling next to a dead body. He hoped Sherlock simply thought it was nerves, which, judging by his expression, was likely. The next sentence completely blew John away, however;  
"This is more fun." _More fun?_ This man, Sherlock, he was the anomaly of the Pures. And John couldn't be happier that he'd been landed with the odd one out. After all, he'd never been very conventional, and this was the odd one out of all the world that barely 1000 other humans on earth knew about. Even less of the population were Pures.  
And John had the anomaly.  
And it made him want to cry of happiness.

Watching Sherlock, after his brief epiphany, was majestic. The man bled intelligence and pure chemical attraction, to John, and he found himself accidentally praising the man's work. He didn't realise he was doing it, that his thoughts unwillingly leapt to his mouth, until Sherlock leaned in and said;  
"You do realise you do that out loud."

John's eyebrows furrowed, and he sprang away to continue his deductions, and Sherlock realised the missing factor.  
"The case! Where is it?"  
"There... wasn't a case."  
Sherlock's almond shaped eyes widened, and he took off at full pelt, running down the stairs, yelling like a mad man without a box... except this time it was a suitcase that had been lost.

"Serial killers are difficult... Got to wait for them to make a mistake... But this one already has!"  
"What mistake?"  
"PINK!" And with a grin, he was gone. Down the stairs, out the door.

**A/N#2: More soon, I swear. Thanks for putting up with me and all my terrible writing and uploading times and bad plots and copious amounts of silliness and romance. I love you all.**

**Love, hugs, hedgehogs and tea.**


End file.
